When I tell people I've never loved,
it isn't true.
It's a lie that hid itself
between hard hugs
and pursed lips that pressed
passionate kisses to my forehead.
Linked arms and brushing thighs
melded us together.
You were sweet summer:
Black haired with wild blueberry eyes.
I can't count the tears I cried over you,
or the words upon words
that piled in the back of your Subaru
along with your hockey gear.
You were my best friend for years.
which used to pass swiftly
ripening until red enough
to take a bite.
And they'd taste bittersweet and great,
like those blueberries
that grew near the wooden gate,
where I'd sit
swinging my skinny legs as you spoke of
And I wanted.
I think those blueberries poisoned me
far more effectively
than anything Cupid could create.
But by the time I was beautiful,
it was too late.
We grew separate.
You know how it goes:
years can grow overripe
and that banana could have made good bread,
but you never professed to be a chef,
and I'm no good at baking alone.
How I hated you then
because all I wanted was that one kiss,
like the one you described to me.
The one you gave her.
With the flickering fire
and that shooting star
the one that made you believe it was meant to be.
Meant to be!?
Because our hugs never changed,
but your kisses
and I couldn't listen
when you spoke of wanting
I let you go.
You didn't understand,
and I couldn't explain.
There's no way to describe such subtle pain
and nothing to gain from saying I love you.
Our friendship was molding anyway.
So even now when they ask me
have I ever been in love?
They can't tell.
I still live for summer time,
I just can't stomach blueberries very well.